Lines
Written under the influence of Wordsworth, with a slate-pencil on a window of the dining-room at the Lowood Hotel, Windermere, while waiting for tea, after being present at the Grasmere Sports on a very wet day, and in consequence of a recent perusal of Belinda, a Novel, by Miss Broughton, whose absence is regretted.
HOW solemn is the front of this Hotel,When now the hills are swathed in modest mist,And none can speak of scenery, nor tellOf ‘tints of amber,’ or of ‘amethyst.’Here once thy daughters, young Romance, did dwell,Here Sara flirted with whoever list,Belinda loved not wisely but too well,And Mr. Ford played the Philologist!Haunted the house is, and the balconyWhere that fond Matron knew her Lover near,And here we sit, and wait for tea, and sigh,While the sad rain sobs in the sullen mere,And all our hearts go forth into the cry,Would that the teller of the tale were here!
Lines
Written on the window pane of a railway carriage after reading an advertisement of sunlight soap, and Poems, by William Wordsworth.
I PASSED upon the wings of SteamAlong Tay’s valley fair,The book I read had such a themeAs bids the Soul despair.
A tale of miserable menOf hearts with doubt distraught,Wherein a melancholy penWith helpless problems fought.
Where many a life was brought to dust,And many a heart laid low,And many a love was smirched with lust—I raised mine eyes, and, oh!—
I marked upon a common wall,These simple words of hope,That mute appeal to one and all,Cheer up! Use Sunlight Soap!
Our moral energies have rangeBeyond their seeming scope,How tonic were the words, how strange,Cheer up! Use Sunlight Soap!
‘Behold,’ I cried, ‘the inner touchThat lifts the Soul through cares!’I loved that Soap-boiler so muchI blessed him unawares!
Perchance he is some vulgar man,Engrossed in £ s. d.But, ah! through Nature’s holy planHe whispered hope to me!